


Twelve Nightmares Before Christmas

by Obotligtnyfiken



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Ficlet Challenge 2018, Angst, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Nightmares, Nobel Prize, POV Multiple, Platonic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-18 05:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16988673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obotligtnyfiken/pseuds/Obotligtnyfiken
Summary: In the trailer to the escape room adventure The Game is Now, we are told that Sherlock is in Sweden. But why? Will John be able to persuade him to come home to London again?Many years of trauma have left scars. Sherlock, John and the people around them have nightmares in one form or another and have learned to live with them. But one day, the price is just too high to pay. Sherlock needs to leave London and takes a case in Sweden. John needs to get a handle on his sleeping problems and asks Sherlock for a case. While John and Sherlock try to stop a scandal at the Nobel Prize party in Stockholm, their friends in London struggle with nightmares of their own.Solving crimes together is not what it used to be, and returning to Baker Street seems impossible. Is this the end of the story of Sherlock and John, or will they find their way back together?Written as a series of ficlets from different points of view. Inspired by the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge by MissDaviesWrites on Tumblr.





	1. Defeat

**Author's Note:**

> This entire fic is inspired by the 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge by MissDaviesWrites on Tumblr, prompt nr 23: Nightmare before Christmas. I'll be posting one chapter a day (starting with two on December 14), which means the final chapter will be up on Christmas Eve if all goes as planned.

_December 3_

_Sherlock_

The clock blinks 4:03 on his night stand when Sherlock springs awake from the nightmare. He never used to have them, not even during those awful years and months and days away, when he was dead. He didn’t dream about falling, not about killing, not about being (almost) killed. They didn’t start until he came home.

Sherlock sat up and tried to get out of bed, but his legs wouldn’t carry him yet. He leaned back on his hands, trying to catch his breath. His sheets were clammy beneath his palms and he could smell the sour sweat of stress and fear cooling on his skin. He took a shaking breath, got up and stumbled into the shower.

It was to be expected, he supposed, considering the rather severe and prolonged torture he was subjected to in Serbia before his brother got him out. He had to admit the emotional content of the dreams — the racing heartbeat, the taste of bile and blood in his mouth, the ringing in his ears and the smell of sweat and urine — all were undeniably Serbia. But for some reason, the actual imagery in the dream never left London. It was always just him, stumbling around some shop or street or crime scene, making a fool of himself. And then the dream always ended the same way, on a restaurant floor, with John’s hands around his throat, his back slamming painfully against the floor and his vision darkening as John killed him. And then he woke up, just as he died.

Half an hour later, he was leaning against the window sill in the living room, smoking a cigarette and giving up. It was odd, it happening like this, on a cold December night without any real event causing his defeat. He was done. He had kept going in the same direction for as long as he could remember and now, suddenly, he had come to the end of this road and simply had to concede it was not possible to go one step further. London was no longer his playground, it was his prison. Baker Street was no longer his refuge, but a museum of his failures. The dust he wouldn’t let Mrs Hudson clean up had turned everything grey and stale.

He stubbed out his cigarette and sat down at the desk to think. This was the place where John once sat writing his ridiculous stories. If he could no longer mimic his own actions to invoke normality, he might as well mimic John. He reached for his laptop, put it on the desk in front of him and opened it. It whirred to life and showed him his email account.

Out of habit, he scrolled through the messages from desperate family members, distraught business owners and bested collectors. Unexpectedly, a plea for help caught his eye. A person loosely associated with the Swedish royal court had stumbled upon evidence of a conspiracy to falsely implicate one high ranking literary figure in a scandal during this year’s Nobel Prize party on December 10. Due to some complicated and far reaching earlier scandal in the royal literary academy, which required far too many pages of explanations which Sherlock didn’t bother reading, the man did not dare bring forth his evidence to the authorities or to the lady in question. Apparently the situation was too volatile. He seemed to think Swedish society as a whole would collapse unless the entire business was kept completely under wraps. Therefore, he implored Sherlock to come to his aid and save not only the lady but the entire world of academia from irreparable damage.

The whole thing was preposterous and this man could not possibly have found his way to Sherlock’s email address without Mycroft’s involvement, damned the man. Still, the ridiculous case seemed like an escape route. He quickly booked a ticket to Stockholm and went to his room to pack his dress suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short version of the scandal in the Swedish Academy can be found here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swedish_Academy#2018_controversies  
> A longer version, but not entirely up to date, in this article in The Guardian from July 2018: https://www.theguardian.com/news/2018/jul/17/the-ugly-scandal-that-cancelled-the-nobel-prize-in-literature


	2. Resolve

_ December 7  
John _

When John finally remembered to lift his hand from the kitchen table and grasp the mug, the coffee had gone cold. He made himself drink it anyway, as medicine against his hangover and as penitence for letting another night of nightmares get away from him. 

He was supposed to have picked Rosie up from the babysitter’s after his shift last night, but he had once again called to ask if she could stay the night. His excuse was sleep deprivation, and this was absolutely true. As a doctor, he knew he shouldn’t even have been driving in such a blurry state, and certainly not with a child in the car. But the problem was, he never got better. The nightmares just kept coming, he kept trying to use alcohol to quell his fear of going to sleep, and the alcohol made him forget his breathing techniques and the other tricks that Ella had taught him.

He had had plenty of practice getting over nightmares, over the years, having bad dreams from so many different traumas that by now they had all mostly blurred together into a general fight/flight response. It was as if his mind no longer bothered to put images to the emotions. Those dreams were easy to handle, if he was sober. He just woke up, breathed, counted, named things around him to ground himself in the moment and waited for sleep to come back. They were terrifying but manageable. But with alcohol in his system, nothing seemed to work.

Also, lately he had started dreaming of Rosie. Those nightmares were all too vivid, and completely impossible to get rid of after waking. All day, he carried the images with him. Dropping Rosie into the pool with Moriarty laughing dementedly in the background. Rosie running out into traffic while he was stuck on the pavement cradling Sherlock’s broken skull. Rosie falling down the well at Musgrave Hall. Sometimes she just faded slowly away and no matter how hard he tried to reach her, she just slipped further and further into the distance. After a whole day seeing those images flashing before him at unexpected moments, he could barely enter his bedroom without a drink in his hand — or in his belly.

He knew he couldn’t keep doing this. He was supposed to stop using babysitters overnight — paid professionals and friends — once Rosie had started sleeping through the night. Instead, he had been handing her off to anyone who would take her, first once a week, then several times a week. He hadn’t seen her for three days now. The guilt was too immense to even contemplate, so he just pretended that Rosie was living in a parallel reality, where nothing he did affected her.

John went to the sink to rinse the dregs of cold coffee from his old RAMC mug, the only personal thing besides his gun he had brought back from the war. Images from his army days flooded his mind, memories of discipline and violence and of holding fellow soldier’s lives in his hands — and saving them. That John Watson would not have let his child slip away from him. That John Watson would have been ashamed to cower from the necessary course of action, no matter how difficult or demanding it might be.

John straightened his spine and made a decision. It was time to solve this problem, one way or another. First, he needed to kick his alcohol habit. Habit, not problem, not that, not yet. He did know how to handle nightmares, if he just stayed sober. Second, he needed to tire himself out so that his body was truly ready for sleep when he lay down. Third, he needed a distraction from his own thoughts. Then, when he could manage sleeping more than one sleep cycle per night, he was going to get his routines with his daughter sorted.

He took a deep breath and called the surgery.

“Hi, Martha. John here. I’m … I’m going to need a favour.”

Telling Martha he needed time off to get his nightmares sorted had been mortifying, but not as excruciating as her response, which was sympathetic but which clearly indicated she thought he was checking himself into some sort of rehab. No, he thought. I don’t need rehab. I need a case.

Next, he called Mrs Milton, Mary’s neighbourhood aqcuaintance turned babysitter, and went through the same humiliation of asking for help and receiving both sympathy for his struggle and a strong indication she suspected that he drank too much. He gritted his teeth and stayed polite, promising to come by with clothes and toys for Rosie, to say goodbye to her before he left and to be back within two weeks. He wondered what damage he was doing to Rosie’s young mind with his absence, but realised that his constant unplanned absences were probably even more damaging for her. He decided to stuff the guilty conscience away together with the rest of the mess that was his life. Right now, he needed to focus, and god dammit, he was a soldier and that was something he knew how to do. 

Only after he had showered, shaved and dressed in his most well pressed shirt, did he text Sherlock. Time to humiliate himself again.

_ Sorry to bother you, but I really need a case. Do you have anything on? _

One hour and four minutes later, his phone pinged. John scrambled for his phone and almost dropped it in his haste to reply.

_ In Sweden. Can’t come to London. SH. _

_ I am free for the next two weeks. Rosie with babysitter. _

John could see the three dots appearing, disappearing and reappearing for several minutes. It was so unlike Sherlock that John felt a grip of fear around his heart. If he didn’t want John to come, he would have just said so, right?

Finally, the answer came through.

_ Come to Stockholm. Bring dress suit. One is waiting for you at Ainsworth’s but you need to have it fitted. SH. _

John’s felt his mouth spread into a grin.

_ OK! What else? What are we doing? _

_ I’ll tell you later. I’ll send your tickets later today. SH. _

And just like that, John had purpose again.    


	3. The Dreaded Call

_December 7  
Molly _

Molly yawned as she opened the door to the mortuary. It had been awhile since the nightmare disturbed her sleep, but last night she had woken up in the small hours of the night and had not been able to get back to sleep until after five. Her alarm clock rang at 6:15, so she was now both sleep deprived and stuck in the wrong part of a sleep cycle.

Back when Sherlock was away, the nightmare had plagued her frequently. The basic story of the dream was always the same, even if the details could vary. A telephone rings, she answers, and the voice on the other end is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother. Mycroft keeps talking in his condescending upper class voice, droning on about governmental issues and polite platitudes. He never gets to the point, but Molly knows that the reason for the call is that Sherlock is dead. Mycroft can’t bear to say it, and Molly couldn’t bear to hear it, but they both know the truth.

These days, Sherlock played a very small part in her life. He would occasionaly visit the morgue to look at a corpse and she sometimes bumped into him when visiting Mrs Hudson. Her infatuation with him had long since faded away and she thought of him like a friend, or perhaps a relative that she cared for but had long since given up hope of truly understanding. But the nightmare stayed the same, and the dread it left behind felt as real as if Sherlock was still the love of her life and she was still guarding the secret of his survival. 

The metal tray clanged as it fell to the floor and the instruments she had been gathering skittered all over the mortuary floor. Sighing, Molly picked them up, put them on the desk and went in search of coffee. She needed caffeine if she was going to be able to do her job.

A cup of hot, black coffee in one hand and her mobile in the other, Molly sat down in the canteen. She opened her text messages and reread her latest conversation with DI Lestrade.

He had asked for results on a possible murder victim and she had replied that they were not ready yet. The subject was professional but the tone of the texts were decidedly flirtatious. Were they starting something here? Her thumb hovered over the screen — should she send another text?

Suddenly, her phone rang, vibrating in her hand. An unknown number. Could it be Lestrade, calling from an office phone somewhere?

“Molly Hooper.”

“Hello, Ms Hooper. This is Mycroft Holmes.”

Molly felt her skin go ice cold. There was probably a polite response that was expected at this point in a phone call, but she had absolutely no idea what it could be.

“I was wondering if I might impose on your working day. There is a delicate matter that I cannot handle myself. I would much appreciate if you were able to be of assistance during your lunch hour.”

This is it, Molly thought helplessly. It really is happening.

“What do you need?” Her voice squeaked unpleasantly but at least she got the words out.

“Dr Watson is going to assist my brother on a case of a sensitive nature. They are going to have to attend a very formal dinner party and he will need a dress suit of impeccable fit. Sherlock has arranged for him to have it fitted at Ainsworth’s at twelve o’clock today, but I am afraid that Dr Watson’s innate — resistance to what he perceives as upper class attire will make him reluctant to give the tailor the time he needs to do the fitting properly. I was hoping that you could accompany him.”

“You want me to go with John to the tailor?” The request was so absurd that Molly was certain it must be some sort of code. She squeezed the coffee cup for warmth, but realised that she was crushing the thin plastic and put it down to avoid an accident.

“Yes, if you would be so kind. A car will be waiting for you at 11:45 to take you to Ainsworth’s, and it will take you back to work afterwards. There will be lunch sandwich and a drink for you in the car.  If you wish, the driver can arrange for a coffee for the drive back. You will not be able to take coffee at the tailor’s, unfortunately. Mr Ainsworth is very particular about food and drink in his shop, but this dedication to precision and quality is what makes him such an excellent tailor.”

“Alright,” Molly heard herself say. It did sound like a truly awkward way to spend a lunch hour, both for herself and for poor John Watson, but she couldn’t say no to the opportunity to reassure herself that John actually was going to meet Sherlock, that he truly was alright. Molly couldn’t shake the feeling of doom that had washed over her when she first heard Mycroft’s voice. The phone call was too similar to her dream conversations with him.

“Thank you. Your assistance will be most appreciated.”

Mycroft hung up and Molly was left staring at her phone. Did John know she was coming? Did Sherlock know that his brother was meddling? Probably not, but neither of them would be surprised.

Her hand shook as she finally drank her coffee. It didn’t matter that Mycroft hadn’t mentioned a single thing about Sherlock being in danger, she still felt the panic clawing at the fringes of her mind. She needed a distraction. Before she could change her mind, Molly pulled up Lestrade’s contact and pressed the call button.

“Lestrade.”

“Hi, it’s Molly.”

“Oh, Molly! Hi!” Lestrade sounded both surprised and pleased. “How are you today? Are the stiffs behaving?”

Molly laughed and felt a tiny bit of warmth spread in her chest. “I certainly hope so.”

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Have you got the results back?”

“No, sorry. I hope to have them for you this afternoon.” Molly hesitated. “Actually, I just had the most extraordinary call from Mycroft Holmes and I just had to tell someone.”

Lestrade laughed out loud. “I know what you mean! That man only ever makes extraordinary calls. So tell me about it. What has that giant brain cooked up this time?”

“He wants me to babysit John Watson at the tailor.”

Lestrade laughed so hard that he dropped his phone. Molly felt a grin spread on her face and her shoulders drop back down into place. She would get through this day too.


	4. Opportunity

_ December 10  
Lestrade _

Lestrade kicked off his shoes, grabbed a beer from his fridge and sank down on the sofa. He had intended to turn on the telly, but reaching for the remote was beyond him. He closed his eyes and brought the bottle to his lips.

It had been a long day, but before that, it had been a long, sleepless night. He hated nightmares. If he had been dreaming of dangerous criminals, or of desperate victims he didn’t save, that would have been one thing. He could have complained about those dreams to his friends, he could have even gone to counselling and talked about them. But he didn’t dream about those things. He dreamt about his career. It was mortifying to think about.

When Sherlock jumped and left them all to think that he had killed himself in agony over his ruined reputation, the rest of them were each dragged into his or her own separate hole of despair. John looked like a walking corpse, Mrs Hudson seemed to age a decade overnight, and Molly had shadows under her eyes making her look as if she had been working for weeks without stopping. 

Lestrade grieved for Sherlock, of course he did, and he felt guilty for his part in Sherlock’s downfall, but what kept him up at night wasn’t his lost friend. It was the wreck of his career. He kept reliving the shame of explaining, again and again, why and how and when he had used Sherlock to solve his cases instead of cracking them himself with good, hard police work. For a while, it had seemed the questions would never end and he had been certain that it would be the end of his career. But somehow, he had managed to hang on to his job and eventually the interest of his superiors and the media were drawn to newer scandals and fresher blood. By day, he thanked his lucky stars to still be doing the work he loved, but by night, he relived the shame again. 

Years had passed and he had mostly put that awful time behind him, but once in a while the nightmares returned and made him feel the humiliation as acutely as if it had happened yesterday.

He was sure the others had bad dreams too, but theirs were certainly of things actually worthy of pain and suffering. Molly had even told him about her own nightmares a few days ago when she had called to tell him about Mycroft’s weird request. They had ended up talking for almost twenty minutes and he had been forced to close the blinds in his office so the rest of the department wouldn’t see him blushing and laughing like a school boy. In the end she had admitted the real reason for her call. In her nightmares, Mycroft called to tell her Sherlock was dead, for real this time. 

Up until the call, Lestrade hadn’t realised that Molly had been Sherlock’s accomplice in faking his death. It had really thrown him for a loop and he had ended the call abruptly. He felt strangely betrayed by her. But why should he? She had done what no one else could, at great risk to her own career, and in doing so had saved not only Sherlock’s life, but John’s, Mrs Hudson’s and his own as well. She had kept Sherlock’s secret, and in doing so saved all of their lives. It was something he should thank her for instead of being cross. 

Lestrade took a last swig of beer, put the empty bottle on the sofa table, fished out his phone from his pocket and checked the time. 10:46. It was not too late to send a text, hopefully.

_ Sorry I’ve been absent. How did it go at the tailors? _

He pressed the send button and hoped he had hit the right note. To his joy, three little dots appeared almost immediately.

_ It was fine. Hang on! _

Lestrade sat staring at the phone, not sure how to interpret that message. A minute later, a text appeared with a link to a celebrity gossip website. It was a live blog from the Nobel Prize party in Stockholm. At the top of the latest post was an image of a tall, elegant woman in a gown that looked like a huge tent in pink and orange. Based on the comments on the blog, this was apparently the height of fashion, or at least a very daring choice of clothing. The tent dressed lady was dancing with a sexy woman in a form fitting pale pink dress, her dark hair in a huge construction at the back of her head. 

Lestrade scratched his head. He had been trying to flirt with Molly and he didn’t think he was mistaken in thinking the interest was mutual. But why was she sending him a picture of another woman’s bottom? A very slim but rounded and beautiful bottom, for sure, but why? Was she fishing for a compliment? She didn’t expect him to discuss fashion, did she? 

His phone pinged again. 

_ What on Earth is he doing? _

Oh. She wasn’t interested in the perfectly curvy woman then. Lestrade stopped himself from following that thought to its more fanciful conclusion and looked at the picture again. The two women were dancing in an opulent room with golden mosaic on the walls and a floor made of marble in many colours. There were other couples dancing as well and he tried to find something remarkable about any of the gentlemen, but they were all uniformly penguin dressed and slightly awkward on the dance floor. Perfectly normal toffs, or whoever it was that attended these parties. He was going to need more information. 

_ Who? _

Molly’s reply came instantly.

_ John!!! _

Was this the party John and Sherlock were infiltrating? The Nobel Prize party? Lestrade zoomed in and scrolled around to look closer. No one looked familiar. His finger slipped and he accidentally pulled the image all the way up so that all he could see on his little screen were the feet of the people dancing. 

No, wait. Not just feet. What on Earth was John Watson’s face doing ten inches from the floor on a crowded dance floor? 

He couldn’t have fallen, because he looked perfectly composed. In fact, he seemed to be peering very intently at the billowing skirt of the woman in the tent like garment. Not peering under her skirt, which would have been troubling but easier to explain, but staring at the hem, as if he was inspecting the handiwork of the dressmaker. 

Lestrade opened a new text to John. 

_ Crawling on the floor at the Nobel Prize party? You have some explaining to do, my friend. _

He returned to his conversation with Molly and started to reply to her latest text but thought better of it. This was an opportunity to make amends for brushing her off earlier. And to take their flirting to the next level, hopefully. It definitely deserved a proper phone conversation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for the dresses can be found in this picture, but the story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended.  
> https://www.aftonbladet.se/nyheter/a/p6RAqV/sara-danius-glanste-pa-nobelfesten


	5. Beheadings

_ December 10  
Sherlock _

_ I haven’t seen John laugh like this in years, _ Sherlock thought as he pulled John behind one of the pillars, away from the chaos that erupted on the dance floor when the dancers started tripping over John’s crawling body. They left the glittering dance hall behind for the relatively calm and cool air of the balcony above the great dining hall, their backs against the pillar, panting next to each other like they did that first night when Sherlock cured John’s limp with a mad chase across London. 

Sherlock looked out over the remnants of the longest dinner party he had ever attended without causing a distraction that allowed him to escape. Below them, waiters were clearing the tables while giggling guests were sneaking down to sit in the chair where the Swedish king had placed his behind during the evening. Calling this imposing but oddly rustic hall  _ The Blue Hall _ was probably the worst misnomer he had ever encountered, since there was not a spot of blue in the whole room and the walls were made entirely of rough red brick. On the other hand, the room behind them called  _ The Golden Hall _ was more aptly named than most, its walls entirely covered with a golden mosaic. 

Beside him, John was panting, still laughing. “ _ This _ must be the most ridiculous thing I have ever done!”

Sherlock’s grin almost split his face in half. “Come on, John. Did you see anything?”

“Yes, you were right. Something has been embroidered at the bottom of the dress, at the back. I almost didn’t spot it because it was hidden beneath the cape.”

“But it would be only too easy to lift the hem of the cape, or even blow it up with a little hand held fan, take a photograph and set the scandal in motion. It would go viral within minutes.”

“We need to alert her. He might have taken the photograph already.”

Sherlock sneaked a look around the pillar. “We’ll wait until this song ends. She’s in the middle of the dance floor. She won’t thank us for creating a commotion.”

At that moment, Sherlock's phone sighed orgasmically. He could hear John’s spine straighten as the fabric of his tailcoat rasped against the bricks behind them.

”You two are still texting then,” John said through clenched teeth.

“It’s not what you think.” Not good, Sherlock berated himself. John was getting angry and contradicting him was not the way to calm him down.

“You don’t know what I think.” John stepped away from the pillar and out onto the balcony. 

“She has nightmares,” Sherlock blurted. 

“What?”    


“Irene Adler. When she has nightmares, she texts me and I give her a puzzle to solve. It helps her sleep.” 

“What does she have nightmares about,” John scoffed. “That woman has no conscience.” 

“Beheadings.” 

“What?” 

“When I saved her life in Karachi, she was just about to get beheaded. By scimitar. She escaped unscathed but the experience still left scars, so to speak.” 

John stared at him. Thankfully, at that moment the orchestra came to the end of the song, drawing the final notes out to let the dancers end with a fancy pose if they so wished.

“Come on, we have to go stop that squirrel of a man from instigating a scandal of epic proportions.” Sherlock pushed away from the pillar and stepped away from the conversation. 

“Sherlock! What happened in Karachi?” John yelled after him, scaring an elderly man who was entering the hall with what must be his granddaughter on his arm, considering their likeness and the age difference. 

Sherlock dashed out onto the dance floor and, with as much grace and charm as he could muster, asked the surprised lady in billowing pink and orange silk for a dance. To his relief, she accepted as the orchestra picked up  _ Fly Me to the Moon.  _ While they danced, he explained the matter and was pleasantly surprised by her quick understanding of the situation. 

In the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see John leaning against the side of the pillar, staring them down with arms crossed while they whirled about the dance floor. Once again, he had managed to get John’s back up simply by trying to do the right thing. The elation of solving a case and the joy of dancing with a competent partner fell away, leaving him tired and tense. Time to end this charade. 

“Let’s get rid of that embroidery before he sneaks up on us and takes that photograph,” he whispered in her ear.

Sherlock steered them to the other side of the dance floor, as far from John as possible, and looked for a discreet exit from the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pictures and information about the Golden Hall and the Blue Hall here:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_Hall_(Stockholm_City_Hall)  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blue_Hall


	6. Worry

_December 10  
Mycroft _

 

Mycroft sat down behind his desk and opened the latest report from his Swedish contacts. Still no sign of any disturbing posts on social media. That was a good sign, but time was running out. He had no hope either his brother or Dr Watson could comprehend the importance of their task. Sending Sherlock to the Nobel Prize dinner was very much like asking the proverbial bull to enter the china shop, and he probably should have left this matter to a more discreet agent. But he had been worried about his brother of late. He was not recovering well from the events of the past few years, and his separation from Dr Watson only seemed to increase his dependency on the man.

Mycroft had very mixed feelings about John Watson. On one hand, he had been very good for Sherlock, and very loyal to him. On the other hand, he had treated him worse than anyone else, to the point of even abusing him. And Sherlock seemed to have no limits as to what he would allow John Watson to do to him -- or what he himself would do for John Watson.

Introducing Mary Morstan into John Watson’s life had been a bit of a gamble, but he had wanted to give Sherlock the opportunity to build a proper life for himself when he returned to London after his years abroad, not fall back in with Dr Watson and return to their ridiculous crime solving escapades. The plan had worked admirably — until Mary had gone rogue and shot Sherlock, that is. And managed to convince him, posthumously, to sink deeper into drugs than he had ever managed on his own.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and sighed. Sherlock’s drug habits were his constant nightmare. A blush crept up on Mycroft’s cheeks. Well, they were his waking nightmare. His real nightmares were much more humiliating.

Mycroft would never admit it out loud, but at night, he sometimes dreamt of Irene Adler. Not in the way that most people dream of Irene Adler, though. He lived in constant fear that he would one day nod off in the back of a car and say her name in his sleep. If he did, he would forever be plagued by rumours that The Iceman dreams of The Woman. He only wished his dreams were of the nature those rumours would imply. He neither dreamt of whips nor of sex, but instead of defeat and humiliation. In his dreams, he is winning her over in their little mind game, only to realise he has got the whole thing backwards and is standing in the middle of a crowded room completely naked. Everyone is looking at him, Ms Adler smirks at him and then he wakes up in a cold sweat.

He hadn’t had that dream in a while. He hoped this unexpected recollection would not trigger it tonight.

He was reaching for his phone to check his messages when it rang. The name on the screen made his blood go cold. A phone call from Sherlock was never good news.

“Hello, brother dear,” Mycroft said and stood up to improve his voice control.

“We’ve solved the case and removed the message. You can tell your annoying pal that it was the dressmaker’s assistant. He had embroidered a message on the hem of her skirt and was planning to photograph it and post on Twitter this evening. We’ve removed it and I want to leave this infernal party. I don’t want to talk to him again, he’s annoying. You talk to him instead.”

Sherlock calling Mycroft instead of texting or simply ignoring him was so unusual that Mycroft felt momentarily at a loss for words.

“Removed how?” he heard himself ask.

“We locked ourselves in the handicap toilet and I took it out.”

“Took it out with what?” Mycroft could just imagine the cost of repairing a hand made dress in silk taffeta after his brother had wreaked havoc on it.

“With a seam ripper of course. Didn’t grandmama teach you anything?”

Stunned, Mycroft wondered what more he didn’t know about Sherlock’s summers in France. He had always doubted the wisdom of staying in Cambridge to study over summer when Sherlock was at such an impressionable age, but he had been young and ambitious, and Sherlock had not yet shown his self-destructive tendencies.

“Mycroft, I have a favour to ask.”

Fear gripped Mycroft’s heart. Here it comes, he thought.

“Do you think perhaps you could find some suitable work for John?”

Mycroft sat back down to avoid toppling over from the shock.

“I don’t think life as a GP and a single parent is working very well for him. Maybe he would do better with a job with more flexible hours. And more — adrenaline.”

Mycroft stopped himself from replying immediately. This was worrying. Why did Sherlock want him to take care of John? Was he planning on disappearing again? Had he already begun the slide into drug use that would eventually kill him, and he knew there was no turning back?

He contemplated how to respond so as not to scare Sherlock away. This could be a step forward for both John and Sherlock, not to mention an opportunity for himself. Maybe having John in a suitable job would help bring Sherlock into a more meaningful line of business.

He decided to sound hesitant, but amenable. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Party sounds suddenly appeared in the background, as if someone had opened the door to the room where Sherlock was standing, letting the roaring party in. His brother ended the call without a word and left Mycroft contemplating the conclusion of the case, the request of his brother, the haste with which he had ended the call. But mostly, he thought of seam rippers.

When Anthea knocked on the door ten minutes later, Mycroft had made a decision. The best way to keep Sherlock sober, was to keep John Watson sober.

“Anthea, get Detective Inspector Lestrade on the phone for me, please.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Half a minute later, his phone rang and he was connected to Lestrade.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. I hope I am not disturbing you.”

“Eh, no.” Lestrade sounded confused. “Well, I was on the phone but the call got disconnected somehow. It doesn’t matter, I’ll call her back later.”

Mycroft smiled at Antheas efficiency. “I’ll try to be brief, Detective Inspector,” he said. “I need a favour. It regards our mutual friend Dr Watson.”

“Right.” Lestrade sounded suspicious.

“It has come to my attention that John has been struggling lately. Considering his daughter is no more than three years old …”

“Three and a half,” Lestrade interrupted.

“Correct, three and a half years old. Anyway, children that age need their parents, I have been told, and since her mother is not with us anymore, this lot falls to John. It is imperative that he does not succumb to his weakness for alcohol, don’t you agree?”

“What do you mean, weakness for alcohol?” Lestrade was suddenly belligerent. Interesting. This was a side of the man he had not seen before.

“I am not sure if you are aware, but Dr Watson has been missing work rather frequently lately and is using overnight babysitters on an average of 6.7 times per month.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Dr Watson is currently out of the country with Sherlock. They have just solved the case, so I expect him to return to London soon. It would be best if there were no alcohol available at home when he arrived. Someone needs to go to his house and get rid of all alcoholic beverages for him and I think it would be best if you did it, since you know him so well.”

“Oh, so you think that would be a good idea, do you?” Lestrade almost yelled into the phone. “I don’t know about any weaknesses of his, but I am aware one thing. John Watson has had it up to here with your snooping and sticking your nose into his and Sherlock’s lives. That man has been to hell and back, and most of his troubles have been connected to you in some way. So if he treats himself to a couple of beers or a little good whisky now and then, I am quite certain that he has earned it. You stay out of his life and leave him alone, do you hear me?”

Well, that did not go as expected. Time for a tactical retreat. “Your protest has been duly noted, Detective Inspector. Thank you for your time.”

Mycroft rang off and buzzed Anthea.

“Could you bring me an aspirin and a cup of tea, please? And an updated list of our current positions for medical personnel within Greater London.”

“Certainly. But I’ll get you an ibuprofen instead, sir. Aspirin is not good for your stomach.”

Mycroft gritted his teeth. There was no reason to snap at Anthea just because she was last in a long line of people not doing as they were told. “Thank you, that would be most kind.”


	7. Gossip

_ December 11  
Janine _

Janine's phone pinged, waking her from her nightmare. Thankful for the reprieve, she gently stroked her closed eyes and cheekbones, confirming that the pain was just in her mind. No one had flicked her face with hard fingers. No one had hurt her tonight. 

Working for Magnussen had been a colossal mistake. She had completely underestimated his power to persuade and blackmail everyone into doing his bidding. She had started the job all cocky, thinking she was immune to his influence.  Two years later, she had purposefully befriended Mary with the objective of becoming her maid of honour, just because he had said so. 

Mary had been her second mistake. Janine had thought she was ensnaring Mary, but in reality she was the one being snared — not just by Mary but also by Sherlock bloody Holmes . That might be the reason why she rarely dreamed of Magnussen — in her nightmares, it was Mary or Sherlock who was flicking her cheekbone while she tried to keep her eyes open. And sometimes, it was Mary’s husband, John Watson. He was the one who had  haunted her nightmare this morning. John and his icy cold smile was the most frightening of them all. 

Sighing, she reached for her phone to check the message as a distraction from her instinct to shield her face from unseen assailants. The message  was from Molly Hooper, Sherlock’s friend, who had somehow decided to take  Janine  under her wing after Sherlock crashed their fledgling relationship with his fake proposal. Janine had never understood if Molly felt sorry for her and wanted to protect her, or if she was in fact jealous and wanted to keep tabs on her. Maybe even Molly didn’t know herself. 

_ Check this out!  _ the message said, and then a link to an article about the dresses and the guests at the Nobel Prize party. The ladies seemed to go all in with elaborate gowns and glittering tiaras. Why had Molly sent her this article? 

Janine looked at the image at the top and felt her skin turn instantly ice cold. There was John Watson’s face, the face from her nightmare,  hovering oddly  a foot above the floor. Instinctively, she screwed her eyes shut and turned away from the image. A few deep breaths later, she opened her eyes and tried to figure out what John Watson was doing crawling on the dance floor of the Nobel Prize party. 

The more she looked, the more curious the whole thing seemed. All thoughts of her nightmare were blown away by the ridiculousness of the image. This was exactly the kind of gossip she loved. Tiaras, a mystery and a man crawling on the floor. Janine usually didn’t encourage Molly, but this was too good to let go. 

_ OMG. Coffee later? _


	8. Date

_ December 11  
_ _ Sally _

Post-mortems were Sally’s least favourite part of the job. She knew they were important, and she had long since mastered the skill of seeming indifferent to the procedure. But faking it wasn’t going to be enough but if she wanted to get ahead in this career. She needed to get over her queasiness and really focus on what she saw and heard in that cold room. 

Today, she was not only distracted by her own nausea, but also by having to watch Lestrade and Molly make clumsy attempts at flirting over the unusually stinky intestines of Mr Lenny Smith, 58, recently discovered dead and decomposing under his own garden compost. Molly kept dropping things and Lestrade kept picking them up for her, like some sort of perverted post-mortem mating ritual. The two lovebirds made her think of Anderson, her own private nightmare. He hadn’t been capable of flirting either.

Her affair with Anderson had started as a diversion, something to make life a tiny bit more exiting at a time when she was exceptionally bored. The excitement soon wore off, and he stopped being worth the bother not long after Sherlock had sniffed them out and started harassing them for it. 

Getting rid of Anderson had turned out to be much more difficult than picking him up, though. At first it all went well. She ended the affair, he found other women to cheat on his wife with, and they resumed a more or less amicable working relationship. But then Sherlock jumped.

Sally had felt bad for Sherlock, and for poor John Watson, but she had never been racked with guilt over her actions. She had broken enough police regulations as it was, covering for Lestrade as he let Sherlock trample all over their crime scenes. No one could blame her for putting her foot down when she did, and she certainly didn’t blame herself. When it happened, she thought Sherlock had finally snapped -- which didn’t surprise her in the least. When he came back and the whole business was revealed in all its absurdity, she realised that she had been duped by Moriarty along with everyone else. But considering the momentous scale of the deception, that wasn’t surprising either. 

So she slept well at night. But Anderson had gone completely round the bend with guilt and self-recrimination. It seemed he had rather hero-worshipped Sherlock underneath all his scorn and he just couldn’t let it go. That was when the trouble started.

First, he started calling late at night, trying to comfort her. She didn’t need comforting. Then, he tried to recruit her to his fanclub. She declined, politely but firmly. At that point, his wife left him, and he started contacting her outside of work -- in the pub, in the supermarket, outside her house. As he spiralled into mania and lost his job, he latched onto two concepts: Sherlock was alive, and the two of them were meant for each other. That was when he became really insistent. At one point, she had considered filing a complaint, but in the end, a firm thwack to the back of his head and a long harangue of all the swear words she knew, delivered at top volume, had done the trick. Now, he looked embarassed whenever he met her and usually didn’t dare look her in the eye. Which was just as well.

Clang! Molly dropped another instrument. Once again, Lestrade bent down to pick it up and the whole routine of “oops” and “sorry” and “I don’t know what’s gotten into me today” started all over again. 

Sally couldn’t take this anymore. She was just about to stomp on Lestrade’s foot and tell him to just ask Molly out already, when a cheery voice was heard from behind the office door.

“Hello! Molly! Are you there? I do NOT want to go into that room to check!”

Molly smiled and hollered over her shoulder. “Janine! How on earth did you get in here?”

“Your security guards are ridiculously easy to flirt your way past. You really ought to do something about that. Come on, finish up! I am dying for that coffee!”

Molly rolled her eyes and started tidying up. “In a minute!” she yelled.

Lestrade stared at Molly with big puppy eyes while she quickly finished her work, and Sally stared at Lestrade, trying to glare some courage into the man’s heart. Come on, man!

Molly rolled the stitched up corpse back into the fridge and they took off their protective gear, washed their hands and went back to her office. In there, a dark, voluptuous woman was perched on the edge of Molly’s desk, her left leg dangling, showing off a shapely calf and a very pretty boot in black leather. 

“Hello, Janine! I’m sorry I’m late. Time must have gotten away from me.”

Janine’s dark eyes flicked from Molly to Lestrade and back again. “Yes, I see.” 

“Janine and I are going for coffee. We made plans this morning,” Molly stammered, looking up into Lestrade’s eyes as if she was apologising.

“Oh, come off it, you two!”

Molly and Lestrade gaped at Janine.

“Hello, Lestrade. Nice to see you again,” Janine said firmly. “Why don’t you take Molly here out to coffee instead. You were about to ask her out, weren’t you.”

This time, Sally joined in the gaping. This woman was quick -- and ballsy! 

“I, well, that is,” Lestrade started.

“Yes, he was,” Sally interrupted him. 

Janine turned her head and seemed to notice Sally properly for the first time. “Well, good. It’s about time those two get their act together, don’t you think?”

Sally smirked. “Absolutely.” She felt an inappropriate urge to laugh out loud.

Janine stepped closer and stretched out her hand. “Janine Hawkins. I don’t believe we have met.”

“Sally Donovan. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Sally.” Janine held on to Sally’s hand just a second longer than necessary. “Do you like coffee, Sally Donovan?”

“I could murder a coffee right now,” Sally said and let her grin spread.

“Take care, you two lovebirds,” Janine said over her shoulder to Molly and Lestrade as opened the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She walked out into the corridor, heels clicking on the hard tiles.

Sally grabbed her purse and said “See you tomorrow, Lestrade! Bye Molly!” as she hurried to follow Janine’s confident stride.

 

Behind her, through the open door, she could hear Molly start to giggle.    


Lestrade huffed the way he did when shaking his head at something. “So. Molly,” he said. “I have a completely novel idea. Why don’t we go grab a coffee?”


	9. Home

_ December 11  
Mrs Hudson _

Mrs Hudson placed her teacup on the side table and sat down in her armchair to rest her hip. She had just returned from visiting Mrs Turner, who had helped her print the image Molly had sent her this morning.  _ Such a sweet girl _ , she thought to herself. Thank goodness she had finally gotten over her infatuation with Sherlock. That must have been the most hopeless crush in history.

Molly had told her a hilarious story of Mycroft asking her to help John at the tailors, to make sure he didn’t flee from the fitting of a dress suit. A few days later, Molly had found a photograph of John from the Nobel Prize festivities in Stockholm, wearing that same outfit.

Molly’s tale was entertaining, but also worrying. Mycroft was micromanaging again, John was leaving his daughter behind and Sherlock was running away. The three of them were supposed to be moving on from their horrible experiences, not reverting to old, destructive habits. 

Sherlock was the one who worried her the most. On the surface, he seemed to have recuperated well, but something was off. For example, he had come down to say goodbye before he left for Stockholm — a proper goodbye, hugging her and telling her to take care of herself, as if he didn’t know if he would be back. This was not like him at all. Usually, he just yelled “Laterz!” over his shoulder and slammed the door so hard her china rattled.

It was clear to her that Sherlock needed John, and John needed Sherlock. But neither of them could ever be happy in the house that John had shared with Mary, among all the unhappy ghosts of past mistakes. 

Bringing up Rosie in 221 B was not going to work either. Even if they baby proofed the place and set up a third bedroom for her upstairs, this place now seemed to be haunted too. Both John and Sherlock moved silently through the flat, as if they were trying not to disturb the memories. Sherlock did the same when he was alone. It sometimes seemed to her as if he was being pushed out of his own home. 

Mrs Hudson sighed. She knew all too well how that felt, to be stuck in a house that no longer felt like home, to tiptoe around memories and fears. No one should have to live like that. 

Maybe she should intervene somehow. Talk to Sherlock, or call John’s babysitter and ask if they needed help. It just seemed a bit beyond her. Every single thing exhausted her these days, and her awful hip didn’t make life easier. Perhaps later, she decided and leaned her head back against the headrest.

_ The dishes were done, as was the ironing. She needed to lay the table but the curtains had to be taken down for washing first. She pulled out a chair to stand on, only to be enveloped in a cloud of dust. Didn’t she just hoover? She fetched the broom but as she returned to the kitchen, she realised that new dishes had turned up in the sink, on the counter, and on the kitchen table as well. There was even a dirty teacup on top of the fridge. Her pulse went up, beads of sweat started gathering at the back of her neck and there was a metallic taste in her mouth. He was going to come home soon. The door to the pantry sprang open and dirty dishes began spilling out, smashing into thousands of pieces on the floor. As she started sweeping them up, she heard the sound of a key in the door. Her heart stopped. _

Mrs Hudson jumped up out of her armchair and nearly toppled the side table. The teacup rattled precariously and a few drops of cold tea splashed out. What was that sound?

The front door opened and she realised she had not dreamt the sound of a key. Someone was actually at the door. She took a step to check if it was Sherlock, but realised that she was still too shaky from her dream and her hip hurt. She sat down again to regain her composure.

You could have your husband sent to death row and executed, but the bad dreams about him coming home stayed with you all the same. Frank had been a charmer, a criminal and a beast, all wrapped into one manipulating package. What had started as a whirlwind romance, soon turned into a very traditional, very suffocating and very painful story of what was nowadays called domestic abuse. Back then, it was just the way some men were. She didn’t think she would ever escape, but one day he went too far, and Sherlock came to her rescue. 

Mrs Hudson listened to the footsteps on the stairs, and realised that this was not Sherlock. It must be his brother Mycroft, an incredibly pompous and annoying man. But Sherlock’s family was her family and must be treated as such. 

She sighed, pushed herself to her feet and put the kettle on. There was no way of knowing if he was staying long enough for a cup of tea, but she didn’t want to have to manage the stairs twice with her hip. She could always drink the tea herself if he didn’t want any. She hadn’t managed even half her cup before she fell asleep earlier.

When she pushed the door open with her elbow and yelled her customary “Yoo-hoo!”, Mycroft had settled in on Sherlock’s sofa, flicking through his mail. 

“Good afternoon, Mycroft. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft said, attempting to sound surprised.

“So what are you up to then, Mycroft?” she said and put the tray down on the sofa table. Bending over made her realise how sore her hip was. Walking up the stairs had not been a good idea today. “Did Sherlock ask you to check his mail for him?”

Mycroft didn’t even deign to answer her question. “Have you heard from Sherlock, Mrs Hudson?”

“No, not since he left for Sweden. Have you talked to him?”

“Yes. He asked me to find a better job for Dr Watson.”

Mrs Hudson lowered herself into John’s armchair, leaning heavily on the armrests. She really needed to get something done about this hip. She could barely think, the way it kept acting up. “He worries me, Mycroft. He even said goodbye to me before he left. He never says goodbye.”

Mycroft stood up and started rooting through Sherlock’s desk. 

“What are you looking for, Mycroft?”

“Drugs,” he said tersly.

Mrs Hudson felt like she was caught in a time loop, like that movie Groundhog Day. History just kept repeating itself, as if the same actions wouldn’t lead to the exact same reactions as last time. She shifted in her seat to try to find a better position, but the movement made a sharp pain shoot down her leg. Gritting her teeth to stop herself from crying out, she took a deep breath.

“Stop it, Mycroft,” she said. “Stop it right now.”

Mycroft looked up, surprised for real this time.

“You have been invading your brother’s privacy for as long as I’ve known you, and it has never made the slightest difference. He needs your help, not your supervision.”

Mycroft straightened his back, a dangerous fire in his eyes. It was so tiring, dealing with these men who got their feathers all ruffled as soon as someone opposed them.

Suddenly, Mrs Hudson realised that she knew exactly what would help Sherlock and John. Also, Mycroft had it in his power to make it happen. 

Alright then. It was time someone told Mycroft Holmes what to do. She straightened her back, mimicking his posture, and glared back at him. 

“Now listen to me, Mycroft Holmes. I know Sherlock has caused plenty of trouble for you over the years, but he has also helped you more times than I can count. And he is your brother. So you will stop poking your nose into his business, and actually help him for once. This is what you are going to do.”

It really was amazing, how liberating it was to stop giving a fiddle about other people’s opinions, Mrs Hudson thought to herself as she explained to Mycroft what he ought to have figured out on his own.


	10. Leaving

_December 13  
_ _John_

John stretched languorously as he woke, bumping the extra pillow from the armrest of the sofa. Waking up like this was heavenly. The sofa bed in Sherlock’s borrowed flat was incredibly uncomfortable and the duvet smelled dusty, but he hadn’t slept this well in years. Not perfectly nightmare free, but much better than before. Being sober really helped.

Sherlock had made sure to exchange every single beverage put in front of John for a non alcoholic alternative. He had even managed doing so at the Nobel Nightcap, the roaring after party to the glamorous but stuffy Nobel Prize party, which their client had dragged them to after the conclusion of the case. This was no mean feat, considering that it was basically an incredibly elaborate and expensive student party where drinks were free, and the attitude towards drinking was set by hedonistic students with a Scandinavian alcohol tolerance. Seeing Sherlock spend the major part of his powers for deduction and manipulation on keeping John sober had made him feel both grateful and humble. Even Sherlock, with his liberal attitude towards drugs and alcohol, was trying to protect him from himself.

Exhausted after a long day investigating, a long evening at the dinner party and a very long night at the after party, they had spent most part of the next day asleep in the little flat Sherlock had borrowed in Stockholm’s Old Town. At three o’clock in the afternoon, when darkness was falling outside, Mycroft had called John and demanded that he wake Sherlock. A large number of people had wanted explanations -- the police, the literary academy, and even someone representing the Swedish royal court.

John had groaned and expected the whole thing to become a living nightmare, and he had been right. Trying to stop Sherlock from insulting the whole of Stockholm had been absolutely awful and he had loved every minute of it. It didn’t matter how awkward and uncomfortable the situation became. He was always better at Sherlock’s side than on his own. It seemed incomprehensible that he had managed to suppress that knowledge for so many years.

If John was truly honest with himself, he did know precisely why he had stayed away from Sherlock. Mary. Funny, bubbly, feisty Mary was perfect for him, and perfect for manipulating him. While she was alive, he had never noticed how well she had played him. After she died, he had been too consumed with grief and guilt to care. But now that the fog was slowly lifting from his memories of her, he was starting to realise how insidious and mean she had been. She was funny, but most of the time, he was the butt of her jokes. She was bubbly, but her version of bubbly meant that she never took any problem seriously -- unless it was her own. And feisty was not really the right word to describe the single minded focus of a trained killer who shot people in the chest when they got in the way. John pushed himself out of the soft sofa bed and padded into the little kitchen to put the coffee on. Being reminded of Sherlock being shot always made his skin crawl.

John didn’t know how to integrate the these rewritten memories of Mary with the idealised image of Rosie’s mother that he tried to instil in his daughter’s young mind. He had placed portraits of Mary at toddler height and tried to tell Rosie little stories over dinner about what an amazing mother she had been. Maybe this was one of the reasons he was finding it so difficult to keep up the pretence of being a good father. Good fathers didn’t go around blackening their memories of their late wives, did they?

The coffee machine started gurgling and John went back to the sofa to snuggle under the covers, turning the telly on for company while he waited. To his surprise, instead of the morning news there was a choir singing. They were all dressed in long white dresses and had candles in their hands. In front of the choir was a woman with a crown full of candles, their flames dancing around her head. The other women were wearing wreaths in their hair and the men had large pointy hats without brims. The whole thing was very odd and completely mesmerizing.

A rumbling sound from the bedroom told John that Sherlock was up.

“Come look at this, Sherlock!”

Sherlock came out of the bedroom, wrapped tightly in his blue dressing gown. He walked over to the sofa, pushed John’s feet aside and sat down.

“I’ve never seen anything like it!” John said and poked Sherlock’s thigh with his toes.

“It’s a St Lucia procession. It’s a traditional part of the Swedish festivities leading up to Christmas. The Nobel Prize winners get their own private processions. Apparently, Lucia wakes them up in bed and brings them coffee.”

“Really?” The choir switched to a new song. John had no idea what they were singing, but it sounded angelic.”I wish we had this in London.”

“They probably do one at the Swedish Church in London,” Sherlock replied tonelessly.

John looked up at him. He seemed off, and not in his usual post-case crash kind of way.

“We could take Rosie, when we get back to London.” Once the words were out of his mouth, he realised how many assumptions he had packed into that sentence without checking if Sherlock was okay with them. “Listen, Sherlock.” He sat up, leaning his back against the armrest. “I have been thinking. I need a change in my life and I really wish we could get back to some of the stuff we used to do,” he started. How he was going to work up the courage to ask Sherlock if they could find a way to share a flat again, he didn’t know.

Sherlock stiffened on the sofa next to him. “I’m not sure I’m interested in doing what I used to do,” he said and stood up. Without a glance at John, he walked back to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

John stared at the closed door, the room spinning around him. What had just happened here? Did Sherlock not want to go back to London, or did he not want to spend time with John any more? Or was there some new threat that Sherlock was fleeing from, keeping John in the dark as usual?

Something in the flat started beeping and John felt his adrenaline spike as he looked around for danger. A moment later, he realised that it was the coffee machine. He padded back to the kitchen and poured a cup, drinking it at the counter while he waited for his hands to stop shaking. Just like that, all the contentment from the past few days of excitement and silliness and well deserved rest was gone, blown away by a few words from Sherlock and the beep of a household appliance. Stockholm suddenly felt very cold and very alien.

Not knowing what Sherlock was thinking was something he was quite used to, but it was also something he was very fed up with. Talking had never been John’s strong point, but if he was serious about making changes in his life, he supposed this was one more area where he needed to make an effort. He took down a second cup and poured more coffee, one more for himself and one for Sherlock. Then he walked over to the bedroom door and knocked, holding the cups precariously in one hand.

“Sherlock, can I come in?” There was no answer, but John turned the handle anyway. He opened the door just an inch, not enough to see anything if Sherlock was indecent, but enough to hear him properly. “Sherlock?”

The door was yanked back and Sherlock stood before him, tall and impassive. “I have booked train tickets back to London for you. The first leg of the trip is the night train from Stockholm tonight. I managed to find a first class sleeping car, so you’ll have your own bathroom on the train.”

John reeled. He was being sent home, like a naughty child. “Alright. Well, thank you.” He cast around for something to say. “Train again?”

“Yes, with the climate crisis looming on the horizon, train is the only logical option unless in extreme haste.”

“I’ll have to change trains five times.”

“Yes, I know. I’m going to make Mycroft do something about that.”

John couldn’t think of an answer, so he held out the coffee cup. “I brought you coffee.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock took the cup and closed the door again, softly but decisively.

Spending the day with Sherlock waiting for the night train was decidedly uncomfortable after that awkward conversation. John moped around, packing the silly dress suit and swearing over the flapping tails that wouldn’t fit in the garment bag. Sherlock stayed in the bedroom, hunched over his computer.

At lunch time, he convinced Sherlock to go out for something to eat. They walked to the little square in the middle of Old Town, but Sherlock turned on his heel as soon as he saw the bustling Christmas market. A few streets away from the crowds, they found a small café with a good selection of coffee and tea. The sandwiches were bland and boring, but John didn’t feel particularly hungry anyway.

“So you are staying in Stockholm, then?” John ventured. This talking thing was as painful as pulling out teeth, but if this was the last day John got to spend with Sherlock, he couldn’t let everything remain unsaid, like he had so many times before.

“Yes.”

“Why? If you don’t mind me asking.” John finished his latte. He was still thirsty and the beers in the fridge looked very tempting. They were low-alcohol, so they wouldn’t count, would they?

“I have fewer nightmares here.”

John looked up at Sherlock, surprised. “You have nightmares?” He had never even thought of Sherlock and nightmares.

“Yes.”

Pulling out teeth really was the perfect metaphor for this conversation. Sherlock did not give up anything voluntarily. But he didn’t seem averse to answering questions, so John decided to keep asking. “What do you dream about?”

Sherlock hesitated and looked John over quickly, as if he was deducing how John would react. At first, John thought Sherlock would refuse to reply, but then his mouth made a complicated motion. “I dream of Mary,” he said lightly and looked to the side.

John was flabbergasted. “You dream of Mary? Nightmares?” He realised what the nightmares were about. “The shot.”

“Not really.”

“Not really? How do you mean?”

“Mary visited me in hospital, after I was shot.”

“After she shot you.” John was done tip toeing around this subject.

“Yes. One of the first days, while I was still given high doses of painkillers.”

“On her own? I never knew. What happened?”

“She told me not to tell you. She was quite insistent. At that moment, it felt like a threat.”

“I should bloody well think so! She had just shot you, of course it was a threat!” John couldn’t believe how Sherlock kept downplaying all threats to his own life. “Bloody hell, Sherlock! Why didn’t you tell me!”

Sherlock flinched backwards. John realised that he was leaning across the little table and had raised his voice more than was appropriate. He leaned back in his chair and smiled apologetically at the other guests in the café. 

“I’m sorry she shot you Sherlock. I wish you would have told me, right then and there. I would have made sure that she never set eyes on you again.”

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock looked up at him, eyes suddenly full of compassion. “That’s why I didn’t tell you. She was never going to let you be a father if you took my side. I had to try to make sure she stayed with you.”

“You tried to make her stay with me so that I could be a father?” _I can’t have heard that right_ , John thought.

“Yes. You had just become excited about it and I knew that you would be a wonderful father. It didn’t seem right that you should have Rosie taken away from you.”

John felt like the latte in his stomach had decided to come back up. “I’m not a good father. I’m barely a father at all, these days.” The weight of his failures, which he had so successfully pushed away these last few days, came crashing back onto his shoulders. He pushed back his chair and shrugged his jacket back on. “I’m going to go sightseeing a bit before the train leaves. Do you want to come?”

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes large in his pale face. ‘

John drank the last dregs of his latte and walked out into the cold, damp Stockholm winter.

***

Later, when afternoon had turned into evening, John stumbled up the stairs to the flat. Walking on slippery streets in the dark had made the muscles in his legs and back go stiff, and his toes were icy cold. 

He opened the door and was enveloped by warm air and the scent of Chinese food. He pushed off his shoes, hung up his jacket and walked into the kitchen. On the tiny table, Sherlock had set out plates and cutlery. On the counter, cartons of food were waiting.

“Sherlock?”

“Hello, John,” Sherlock called from the other room. “Sit down. I’ll be right there.”

The meal was hot, greasy and absolutely delicious. They didn’t talk much, focusing on the chopsticks and on pretending that John wasn’t leaving and Sherlock wasn’t staying in a foreign country.

When they were done, Sherlock put their plates in the sink and said “Let’s go. I’ll deal with this when I get back.”

Time suddenly seemed to shrink and John wished he could do this afternoon all over again, this time staying with Sherlock and asking him every single question he could think of. “Okay. Let me get my bags,” he said.

As snow fell over Stockholm, they walked silently through the tiny alleys of the Old Town and then across a low bridge to the next island. Here, the charming old houses had been replaced with large boxy office buildings and multi-lane roads full of cars. John thought this was a fitting end. His fantastical adventure of glamorous parties, silk dress scandals and historical buildings was over and it was time to return to the ugly, functional reality. In a way, he was glad he was leaving Sherlock behind. He deserved to stay in the fairytale.

Inside the train station, Sherlock looked up at the big display of departures and arrivals. “Your train leaves from platform ten. That’s right through there.”

“Thanks.” John gripped his bags hard and decided not to hug Sherlock. “Take care,” he said and started walking.

“John!” Sherlock called.

He turned back. Sherlock looked small and lonely in the middle of the big hall.

“Yes?”

“Text me if you have a nightmare.”

John pushed down the jealousy. There was no reason to be upset just because he was offered the same treatment as Irene Adler. “Thanks, I will.” He started walking again, but realised suddenly what Sherlock might have meant. He stopped and turned around. “You too. Text me, or call me.”

A small smile played on Sherlock’s lips. “I will.”


	11. Night train

_ December 14  
_ _ John _

John threw off the covers and rushed to the little bathroom in his compartment, vomiting violently into the toilet.  _ Thank God for first class, _ he thought to himself. He never would have made it to the toilet in the corridor.

Shaking violently, he leaned against the wall and tried not to think of the nightmare. This was probably the worst one yet. He had dreamt of beating Sherlock before, awful reminders of the night he returned from the dead, when John punched him in three different restaurants, and of the worst day of John’s life, the day he lost control and beat Sherlock as he lay bleeding on the floor in Culverton Smith’s morgue. But in this dream, both Sherlock and Rosie were there. Rosie was, as always, slipping away from him, falling backwards into some unknown chasm, but the reason he couldn’t reach her this time, was that his hands and feet were occupied, beating Sherlock ferociously, and he couldn’t control them. He kept yelling at Sherlock to stop him, to defend himself, but Sherlock just lay there, reaching his arms out trying to catch Rosie, not lifting a finger to save himself.  Sherlock and Rosie were both dying, and he was the one killing them.

John threw himself at the toilet bowl once more, retching convulsively. Eventually, he sank down to the floor, resting his forehead on the cold porcelain. He never wanted to sleep again.

Once he had regained control of his legs and cleaned himself up, he put his clothes on and pulled back the curtain from the window. They seemed to be travelling through a dark forest with spruce trees standing so tight together, it would be impossible to walk through it. A full moon was out, its light turning the sparse patches of snow an eery bluish white. 

The rhythmic sounds of the train wheels against the tracks were soothing, but John couldn’t keep himself from wishing he had a large whisky in his hand right now. Fortunately, there was no restaurant on this train. He had gone looking for one last night, pretending he wanted a cup of tea and was only curious about what beverages they served on this train. None at all, it turned out, since it left so late and arrived so early. Banging his head slowly on the cold window, he acknowledged to himself that maybe this alcohol thing was more of a problem than he had wanted to admit. 

John pulled his phone from his pocket. Sherlock had told him to text if he had a nightmare, but he couldn’t imagine what he could write.  _ I dreamt that I beat you to death while you were trying to save Rosie _ didn’t quite work. He heard hysterical laughter and realised it came from his own mouth. Pinching his lips to stop himself from laughing, he stared at the phone, transfixed.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Sherlock. Why did he call? He never called? John hastily pressed the button to answer.

“Sherlock?”

“Hello, John.” Sherlock’s voice sounded gruff, as if he had a cold.

“Hi. What are you -- Are you okay?”

“Yes. Well -- no.”

It dawned on John why Sherlock was calling. “Nightmare?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sounded relieved. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“No, you didn’t. I had a nightmare too, as a matter of fact. Was just thinking about texting you.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me about your nightmare,” John said before Sherlock could ask the same. He didn’t feel ready to talk about it. He probably never would be. “Did you dream about Mary again?”

Sherlock was silent for a long time. When he finally said “No,” it was barely audible.

“So what did you dream about?”

Sherlock hesitated again. “You mustn’t read anything into this, John, or think that I blame you in any way.”

“Read anything into what?”

“I dream about you.”

“You have nightmares about me?” John sat down on his bed and put the blanket over his shoulders to keep warm.

“Well, the -- feelings, I suppose -- that make it a nightmare have nothing to do with you. They are from Serbia. But the actual content of the dream is that you are trying to kill me.”

John felt nausea return and grabbed his water bottle for a cautious sip. “I’m sorry Sherlock. I’m so sorry I have ever hurt you. You don’t know how much I wish I could go back in time and stop myself from ever hitting you.”

“No, don’t, John. That’s not -- I told you, I don’t blame you. I don’t know why you are there in my dream. It’s really about Serbia.”

“What happened in Serbia?” John felt confused. When was Sherlock in Serbia?

“When I was away chasing Moriarty’s men, I was captured and tortured in Serbia. Mycroft got me out eventually but things happened.” Sherlock’s voice faltered. He cleared his throat and continued. “Thankfully, I never dream about that, but the feelings and the sounds and the smells in my dream are from that time. Except in the dream, I’m not in Serbia. I’m in London and you are there.”

John breathed through his nose, carefully and slowly. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Yes, you should. I’m glad you told me. I don’t want you to keep things from me. Please just tell me stuff, Sherlock, whatever they are.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said. “What about your dream then? Did you dream about the war?”

“No, I don’t often dream about the war anymore.” John took a deep breath and put a hand on his roiling stomach. He had just asked Sherlock not to keep things from him. He should take his own advice. “Actually, I dreamt about you. You and Rosie.”

“Me and Rosie?” Sherlock sounded upset, for some reason. “I hope you know I would never, ever hurt her, John. Whenever you are coming over, I always double check my experiments. And I would never let a case take precedence over her safety or health.”

“God, no, Sherlock! That’s not it at all! I don’t think that, I know you would never hurt her!” This was coming out all wrong. John felt his pulse racing. “I’m the one hurting you. I’m the nightmare. I keep dreaming that Rosie is slipping away from me and I can’t save her. Tonight, she was falling backwards and the reason I couldn’t reach her was that I couldn’t stop myself from beating you. I was killing you, Sherlock, while you were the one trying to reach Rosie. I was killing you both.”

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was shaking, or perhaps it was John who was shaking. He wiped his hand over his face and it came away wet.

“John! Breathe for me! Come on, take a deep breath!” Sherlock sounded strangely distant. John realised that he had dropped the phone. It was lying in a fold in the blanket, which had slipped from his shoulders. He picked the phone up and held it to his ear with a trembling hand. “I’m fine, Sherlock. I’m okay.”

“No, you are not. But that’s okay too.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

They were silent on the phone for a few minutes, while the dark trees swished past outside the window. 

“When you get back to London, what are your plans, John?” 

“My plans?” 

“I was thinking maybe you shouldn’t be alone.”

John didn’t know what to say. “I’ll be fine. It will be fine. I’m going to give Ella a call, see if she can fit me in again. I didn’t feel like going back to therapy after your sister conned me, pretending to be my therapist. But it is time, and Ella knows me.”

“Yes. Ella is good,” Sherlock said. 

“I’ll get some groceries and go pick up Rosie.” It felt good to imagine doing everyday things. “I have some more time off from work, so we could get started on the Christmas preparations.”

“Good. That’s good.” Slowly, as if he was warming up to the idea, Sherlock started rambling about Christmas, suggesting child friendly Christmas activities and discussing what Christmas food would be suitable to her tastes and digestion. 

Eventually, he managed to make John laugh with a detailed explanation of why Christmas pudding was in fact an evil concoction inflicted upon the English people by its enemies and should be avoided at all costs. John completely lost it when Sherlock claimed that the king of Spain had intended to send poisoned raisins to England with the specific purpose of ruining the Christmas puddings so that all of England would be weakened by stomach aches after Christmas, creating a perfect opportunity for the Spanish Armada to strike against the English navy. 

“Stop it, stop it!” he cried, his stomach muscles aching from laughing so hard. “Alright, I will not make her eat Christmas pudding unless she wants to!”

“Good, John. See that you do,” Sherlock chuckled.

Outside the window, the dark forest had disappeared. They were now travelling across a flat landscape with moonlit fields and farm houses all the way to the horizon. “I think we will be arriving soon. I need to pack my bag.”

“Okay. Safe travels, John. Give Rosie a kiss from me.” Sherlock drew a quick breath, as if he had been surprised by what he just said.

“I will,” John smiled. “Take care. Stockholm is slippery this time of year. Don’t want you to break a leg.”

“Bye, John.”

“Bye.”

John rang off and stared at his phone for a moment. Then, he opened his email and wrote a quick note to Ella, asking if she could take him on again. At the end, he added a request for that anger management course she had once suggested to him, and wrote a vaguely worded request to discuss issues regarding alcohol.

Email sent, he pulled up Greg’s number.

“Hello?” Greg sounded like he was still asleep.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, mate. I didn’t think about the time. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“John? What’s up?” 

A female voice could be heard in the background and John could hear Greg mumble “It’s John.”

Embarrassed, John decided to be quick. “Actually, I wanted to ask a favour.”

“Alright. What do you need?”

“Do you think you could ask Molly for the keys to my house? I need you to pour out all the alcohol you can find. Or take it home to drink for Christmas, I don’t care.”

Greg was silent for a moment. “Of course, John. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get rid of it for you.”

“Thank you so much, Greg. I appreciate it. You have Molly’s number, right?”

Greg actually giggled at that. John didn’t think he had heard Greg giggle before. “Yes. I’ve got her number.”

“Got whose number?” the voice in the background said. It sounded oddly familiar.

“John wants to know if I’ve got your number,” Greg laughed.

“Greg!” John cried. “Is Molly there with you?”

“I never kiss and tell,” Greg snickered. “See you later, John. And don’t worry about a thing. It will be gone when you get home tonight.”

John ended the call and started packing the few belongings he had taken out of his bags last night. He felt grateful for Greg’s help, but there was a nagging worry at the back of his mind. As the train pulled into the station, he realised what it was. How did Greg know that he was coming home tonight? He never even told him that he was on the train.

***

John didn’t come home that night, though. Delays made him miss his connection in Copenhagen. Then he got lost in Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, which made the station attendant laugh at him because according to the very practical German station plan, it was not possible to get lost there. So he spent an uncomfortable night in a cheap hotel in Bruxelles, not sleeping and fruitlessly trying to distract himself from the sounds from the open bars in the street below. 

Now, the Eurostar train was rolling into St Pancras and on top of feeling nauseous with fatigue the entire journey, John had been forced to listen to a man explain to his girlfriend, slowly and in excruciating detail, how the interconnectivity of the European train network could be improved. Her only contribution to the conversation was to sometimes say “I know”. 

John wished that Sherlock had been there. He would have been able to deduce whether the woman had heard it all before and was just bored out of her mind, or if she in fact knew more about the subject than her boyfriend did and was being thoroughly mansplained. Without knowing which was correct, John couldn’t decide on a way of interrupting the man without insulting the woman, so he suffered in silence.

His head ached and his shoulders were stiff when he pushed out of his seat to find his bags and re-enter London. He flipped up his collar to fend off the cold wind and started trudging towards King’s Cross underground station.

Suddenly, he was enveloped in a flurry of arms and multicoloured knitting. “Welcome home, John!” Molly wrapped his arms around him and hugged him hard.

“Hello there, John.” Greg stretched out his hand and John struggled to unwrap himself from Molly’s long scarf to shake it.

“Hello. Wow. What are you two doing here?”

“We are here to take you to your new home.”

“My what?”

Molly smiled so broadly he could see all her teeth. “Mrs Hudson finally talked some sense into Mycroft, and he has arranged for a new house so that you and Sherlock can live together again, with lots of room for Rosie and for babysitters to stay over. And a separate little house in the garden, where Sherlock can do his experiments. In case he blows something up.”

John looked back and forth between Molly and Greg. “But -- Sherlock is in Stockholm,” he said stupidly.

“Yes, because you haven’t asked him to come live with you yet,” Greg said. 

Molly nodded enthusiastically. “We have spent the last three days moving your stuff.  Mycroft wanted to use professional movers, but we thought you would prefer it just being us.” She blushed and said “Greg did all the stuff in your bedroom, John. I did Rosie’s things.”

John stared at the two of them some more and then burst out laughing. “This is the most inappropriate and wonderful thing anyone has ever done to me. For me.” A sobering thought struck him. “Mycroft isn’t installing spy cameras, is he?”.

“No, apparently Mrs Hudson scolded him for invading Sherlock’s privacy and told him that if he really wanted to help Sherlock, he should stop spying on him and arrange for a house where the two of you can live together with Rosie. It seems she really struck a chord, because there have been people going in and out of the house unscrewing cameras in all kinds of unlikely places. It seems this is a government house for on call physicians.”

“How come I get to live there, then?”

“He’s got a new job for you, too,” Greg said. “It’s very hush hush, but apparently the hours are flexible and there is a baby sitting service in case you need to work late.”

“Really?” 

“Come on, let’s go. Mycroft is waiting at the house with the lease and the job contract.” 

John shook his head and tried to get rid of the cramp in his jaw from all the smiling. “I think I must have stepped right into a dream.”

“I can understand that,” Greg smiled. He picked up John’s bags and started walking. Molly fell in beside him. 

“Greg, where did you park the car?” John called after him. “I’ll meet you there. I just need a moment. I think I’d like to call Sherlock right away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow, there will be a short epilogue. Merry Christmas, everyone!


	12. Epilogue

_Sherlock  
_ _December 24_

A whimper from Rosie’s room in the middle of the night had Sherlock up and moving away from his Christmas project before he even realised that he had registered a sound. It was interesting to observe how close cohabitation with a child so quickly could attune a person’s senses to its sounds and movements. Rosie was prone to nightmares, which was apparently common for her age. Somehow, Sherlock’s ears, or rather the subconscious parts of his mind, could already distinguish between normal sleeping sounds and nightmare whimpers, at least when he was awake. He couldn't be sure if he reacted the same way when he was asleep himself. Maybe he should record her sleeping sounds for a few nights to gather more data. Or maybe not. John seemed disproportionally pleased with the fact that they now lived in a house free from recording devices.

Sherlock took care to walk silently up the stairs to avoid waking John. He opened the door to Rosie’s room and walked over to her little princess bed. Mycroft had gone all in when decorating Rosie’s room, buying the most extravagant pink bed with in an enormous woodcarving of a crown, painted in gold, at the top of the headboard. There were wallpaper and curtains to match, and a large bookshelf. John’s protestations had been dismissed with a vague claim that some employee had gone a bit overboard but the items were non-refundable. Sherlock had seen right through his brother, of course, but Rosie’s obvious delight in her princess fantasy bedroom had stayed his tongue. Sooner or later, she would grow out of this phase and once she did, he would make sure Mycroft had no hand in future redecorations.

Rosie flipped over on her stomach, flailing her arms. He sat down on the chair next to the bed and put his hand on her back, stroking slowly. Her body was so tiny he could almost cover her entire back with his hand. Sometimes stroking like this was enough. The touch woke her up from her nightmare, but the caress soothed her so that she fell back asleep without stirring. Somehow, it always seemed to soothe Sherlock as well.

Living with John again this past week had given Sherlock a sense of freedom and purpose he never could have imagined. When he left for that ludicrous case in Stockholm, he had been convinced he was done with London for good. Leaving Baker Street had been hard, and staying behind in Stockholm when John went back home had been heartbreaking, but he had felt he had no other option. The image of himself that he had painted after his return from his years abroad being “dead”, had turned into a poisoned mask. Once he had ripped it off and stopped being Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street, he had known he could never put it on again.

He had to admit that when John asked to join him in Stockholm, he had hoped that John’s arrival would heal whatever wounds were festering underneath his skin, the way John’s presence had done back when they first met. It soon became apparent that this was not to be. There were too many layers of assumptions between them, too many misunderstandings and miscommunications. And Sherlock could no longer hold up his end of the bargain, to deliver adventure, deductions, and enough danger to get John’s adrenaline going. He had once done this without effort, but these days it was just too exhausting. He had given it one more try for John’s sake, but it was useless. He had been useless. He had been forced to admit defeat.

Once John had left, Stockholm had turned ugly. The Christmas season became frantic as everyone tried to shop until they dropped, while the weather made the most of the fact that Stockholm consisted of at least 14 islands in the inner city alone, in a cold but not yet ice covered sea situated 59 degrees north of the equator. It was cold, it was damp, and the snow that fell kept melting to slush only to turn into ice overnight.

Sherlock had hoped to isolate himself in the borrowed flat for a while, but the news had travelled fast of his involvement in the Nobel case, or The Case of the Embroidered Hem as John was planning on calling it on his blog. While John travelled back to London, he had been besieged by a never ending stream of requests from the Stockholm intelligentia, who offered dull cases concerning scandals and professional reputations, and from the Swedish upper classes, who offered insultingly easy cases of lost property and inheritance fraud. He would have turned off his phone if he hadn’t been hoping that John would call again. Or maybe text.

He hadn’t heard from John until the next morning, but when the call came, it had been glorious, and what John said was totally unexpected. Sherlock had been ready to distract him from his next nightmare and had prepared a number of suitable topics that could make John laugh if discussed the right way. But John was already laughing, and rambling incoherently about a house and a job and Mycroft and Rosie. Eventually, Sherlock had been forced to threaten to call Lestrade in to help.

“Oh, Lestrade and Molly are taking my luggage to the car. I’ll catch up with them in a moment,” John had said.

“JOHN!” Sherlock had yelled. “What are you talking about!”

That had finally made John start from the beginning, and get to the wonderful end. He wanted Sherlock to come live with him and Rosie. He wanted Sherlock to be there, every day. He didn’t want him for the adventure, or the adrenaline, or the danger. He wanted them to be friends, to be housemates, to be in each other’s lives always for no other reason than that they fit together like no two other people did. And he wanted him to be there for Rosie.

Sherlock kept rubbing Rosie’s back, but it didn’t seem to be working tonight. With a scream, she sat up, tears falling down her face. Sherlock bent down and wrapped her into his arms.

“Hello, little one. Did you have a nightmare?”

Rosie snuggled her face into his shirt, but her body was tense and after a moment, she sat up in his arms, looking him in the eye. “There were monsters,” she said and started crying heartwrenchingly.

“Shh, shh. There are no monsters. Look,” Sherlock said and turned on the bedside lamp.

Rosie only cried harder and hid her face in her hands. Right. He kept forgetting that logic did not work that well on children.

“Come, Rosie. Let’s go look in the living room. I have been working on a surprise for you and Daddy.”

Rosie didn’t seem to hear him, so he tightened his grip on her, picked her up and carried her down the stairs to the living room, which was dark except for the light from a small lamp in the window. She clung to him like a little monkey, hiccuping into his shirt.

“Look, Rosie,” he said and bent down to plug in the Christmas lights. Half of the Christmas ornaments were still in their boxes, but he didn’t suppose that mattered to a three year old.

The Christmas tree glittered in the dark corner of the room. Sherlock turned around so that Rosie could see the tree over his shoulder. “Look, Rosie. A Christmas tree.”

Rosie immediately squealed and pointed excitedly, her nightmare all forgotten. She wriggled until Sherlock put her down and ran up to the tree, touching everything she could reach.

“Careful, Rosie. The tree can topple over if you push it.” Sherlock had taken care to place all delicate ornaments at the top, making sure they hung securely from the branches and would not fall down easily. At the bottom were sturdier ornaments that would not get sharp edges if broken.

Rosie took a step back from the tree and looked it over reverently. “You made a Christmas tree for us, Sherlock!” she said.

“Yes,” he smiled at her. “Well, I didn’t actually make the tree, it grew in the forest and then someone cut it down and I bought it. And I didn’t make the ornaments either --”

“You made a Christmas tree for us!” Rosie beamed, completely uninterested in the finer points of the semantics and connotations of the word _make_.

“Yes,” Sherlock conceded. “I’m making a Christmas tree. Would you like to help me?”

Rosie took her job as Christmas tree assistant very seriously, carefully taking the ornaments from the boxes and handing them to Sherlock. She tried hanging one herself, but decided that she didn’t like getting her fingers pricked by the spruce needles.

Once they were done, Sherlock turned off the lamp in the window, picked Rosie up in his arms and stood back from the tree to let her take in the sight of the tree glistening in the dark.

“Tomorrow is Christmas Day,” Sherlock started. He was about to explain the origins of Christmas, but stopped himself in time. Instead, he started humming Silent Night. Soon, Rosie was leaning her head against his chest, her eyes drooping.

The stairway creaked softly from John’s feet padding down the stairs. “Hi there,” he whispered from the doorway.

Sherlock looked up, trying not to jostle Rosie. He kept on humming,  nodding meaningfully towards Rosie.

John smiled and put his finger to his lips to show that he understood.

A few moments later, Rosie’s eyes were closed and she had started snoring softly. Sherlock carried her back to her room, humming all the way to make the transition less noticeable. He bent over her bed and placed her gently on the mattress, slowly removing his arms and pulling the blankets up to her neck. Then he tiptoed out and pulled the door almost closed behind him.

John was standing at the top of the stairs, smiling broadly. “Thank you,” he said almost forcefully.

“She had a nightmare. I let her help with the Christmas tree to settle down.”

“You are wonderful with her. She adores you.”

Sherlock felt himself blush.

John seemed to sense his embarrassment and started walking down the stairs. “Let’s go look at that tree, then.”

Sherlock joined him inside the door to the living room.

“Where did it come from? I had no idea you were getting a tree.”

“I ordered it online and had it delivered to Molly’s house. Lestrade brought it over while you were putting Rosie to bed.”

“Lestrade really has gone above and beyond for us these past weeks.”

“His infatuation with Molly is making him so happy that he says yes to almost anything if it gives him an excuse to spend extra time with her. We should take advantage of that while it lasts.”

John punched him lightly in the arm. “We will do no such thing. We are very happy for them and will do our best to give them space to explore their new relationship.”

“I’m not making any promises,” Sherlock smirked.

John burst out laughing. “You are incorrigible.”

“I certainly endeavour to be.”

John’s smile faded and was replaced by a somber expression. “I’m really glad you are here.”

“Me too, John. I never would have expected to feel indebted to Mycroft for anything, but I will always be grateful that he made this possible for us.”

“Apparently, the one we need to thank is Mrs Hudson. I wish I could have been there to see her sorting Mycroft out.”

“I may be able to hack into Mycroft’s systems and recover the surveillance recordings.”

“Again: you will do no such thing!” John’s smile returned. “But I will not stop you from tricking her into telling the story tomorrow at Christmas lunch. I’d love to see Mycroft squirm.”

“You can count on me, John.” Sherlock’s chest felt full of air, as if he was turning into a hot air balloon, about to fly away into the night. He took a deep breath and realised that he meant what he had said in more ways than one. “I mean that,” he continued. “I know I’ve not been the most trustworthy of friends, but I intend for that to change.”

“I know, Sherlock. You already have changed.” John frowned and pinched his mouth shut for a moment before continuing. “I intend to change too, you know. I went back to Ella last week, and I’m starting an anger management program after New Year’s.”

“That’s good, John. You don’t have to on my account, but I’m glad for your sake.”

“I want to for Rosie, if nothing else.”

Sherlock hummed and nodded.

They looked at the Christmas tree for a little while longer. “When is Molly and Lestrade arriving tomorrow?” Sherlock finally asked.

“They will pick Mrs Hudson up at twelve so they should be here at half past. I’m not sure when Mycroft arrives with your parents, but the food will be here at a quarter to one.”

“He should be here at 12:46, then,” Sherlock said, which earned him another punch in the arm. He bent down to pull the plug on the Christmas lights, but John stopped him.

“No, don’t,” he said. “It will be nice for Rosie if she has another nightmare and wakes up. She’ll be able to see the lights from the top of the stairway if she comes looking for us.”

“I’ll leave them on, then. To fend off nightmares.”

“Yes,” John said. “You are good at that.”

“So are you,” Sherlock said, his grin so big it felt like it would split his face in half.

“Right,” John chuckled. “That’s enough soppy talk for two blokes in the middle of the night. I’m going back to bed. You should get some sleep too. You’ll have to be awake _and_ dressed when the guest arrive tomorrow.”

“How will I ever be able to live up to your standards, John.”

Chuckling, John started walking up the stairs. “Good night, Sherlock,” he said over his shoulder.

“Good night, John,” Sherlock said to John’s retreating back. “And merry Christmas.”

John stopped and turned once more. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” he said and yawned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, it is complete! It has been a whirlwind to write one chapter a day. It has been lots of fun and very good for my productivity, but if I ever participate in an advent challenge again, I will make certain to write all the chapters before I start posting. Writing so close to deadline was quite tricky to do during Christmas preparations. Also, it has meant that my wonderful beta Wetislandinthenorthatlantic has not been able to read all chapters before I posted them. I am certain the lack of her help and guidance is noticeable, and I beg forgiveness for any errors. In particular, I seem to have developed an unhealthy relationship with the word "that" for some reason! :-D
> 
> One word on the relationship between John and Sherlock, before I go. I have marked this fic as Sherlock/John, and added "platonic Sherlock/John" in the tags. I hope I have not disappointed anyone with this ending. I have chosen not to specify exactly how John and Sherlock themselves define their relationship or what sexual and/or romantic orientation they consider themselves to have. I am not sure they know themselves yet, or if they have yet had that conversation. For some readers, this may be unfulfilling to read, and I can understand that. But considering the constraints of writing one chapter per day, and not writing more than twelve chapters, I have chosen not to explore that aspect of the story because I feel that I would not be able to do it justice in such a short fic. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and merry Christmas!


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